A Not So Lonely Planet

by Karina Kennedy

  Many of you won’t know the special, stinky hell of one-hundred-and-three-degree heat with eighty-nine percent humidity while scraping off scales and skin, cutting off tails, and yanking out bones and guts—all while haunting eyes give you a death stare. But my family owns a bed and breakfast, and paying guests don’t clean their own fish. This has been my job since my father left. I do not eat fish. (I’m part fish, after all.) Sadly, the poetic tragedy of forcing me to scrape the flesh off my brethren has always failed to move Rosalie. As I mop sweat from my brow, smearing fish guts on my forehead, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out (with slimy hands) and check the message.

  WILL:

  When do you leave?

  ME:

  Not soon enough.

  WILL:

  I have something for your trip.

  ME:

  I’m already packed.

  WILL:

  Won’t take much space.

  I’m not actually packed. I start to answer him, but at this moment a devious seagull (with whom I have a checkered past) goes for one of the fish filets. Was that bastard bird sitting there waiting for me to clean a fish for him? As I dive forward, flailing my arms to block him, my phone flies out of my slippery, slimy hand, into the air, hits the wooden deck, and skitters over the edge into the water. Fuck.

  WHAT TO PACK FOR YOUR ITALIAN-LOVE-CATION

  1. Old cell phone that was supposed to be your back-up phone (1).

  2. Cute sundress (1–2).

  3. LBD (little black dress) for wine release party and other fancy events (1–2).

  4. Comfortable sandals or flip-flops (1–2) and ridiculously uncomfortable stilettos (1).

  5. Comfortable underwear (6) and uncomfortable sexy lingerie (1).

  6. Bathing suit that shows off your assets (1).

  7. Sarong to cover up your assets (1).

  8. Birth control pills and condoms (can’t be too careful).

  My Boat on Stilts, Harbor House B&B: Wednesday, 11:15 p.m.

  The twenty-six-foot sloop my father never got around to fixing has been my “bedroom” since I tried to run away at age fourteen. Rosalie and I compromised, and I got my own space. The obvious irony of living in a boat, up on stilts, in my mother’s backyard, that was never going anywhere ever again, never occurred to me.

  AT THIS POINT, IF: it’s almost midnight on the night before your first adventure abroad, and you’re still lying in bed awake, you probably shouldn’t have had that double espresso. And latte. And cappuccino. (Rosalie’s new machine for the B&B needed testing.)

  YOU SHOULD: do a mental autopsy of your luggage. The dinner purse you packed is too big. You can’t use it for dinner. Instead, pack the purse-that-turns-into-a-clutch that Sarah gave you. That one is beautiful and functional. You won’t be sorry. Remove the stilettos. They’ll get stuck in the cobblestones. Get out of your bunk, open your new Swiss Army suitcase with the super strong zipper (guaranteed for life), switch the purses, sit on your suitcase, and zip it back up.

  DO NOT: accidentally zip the bottom of the oversized T-shirt you’re wearing into your suitcase, jamming the super strong zipper (guaranteed for life), so you have to crawl over to the table, dragging the bag behind, break your letter opener in the super strong zipper, grab the scissors, and chop the end of your shirt off, along with the part of your knee that was bracing the bag.

  My Boat on Stilts, Harbor House B&B: Thursday, 2:08 a.m.

  I’m lying in my little berth bed, still awake, icepack on my newly bandaged knee, listening to the rain outside. Suddenly I jump. Something hit the deck above me. I stand up and slowly poke my head out of the hatch. Rain pelts the deck. To my relief, the raccoon that’s been harassing me for weeks by knocking rocks against the deck until I toss cookies out the hatch is nowhere in sight. I know this sounds cute, but this fierce trash panda is actually a pirate. He limps, is missing one eye, and breaks into my boat to eat my tropical fish. He’s not cute. He’s a dick. I lie back down, but then . . .

  “Marina?” a voice calls from below. I slide the small curtain back and look down. There, standing in the rain, is my sweet, sexy, soggy ex-boyfriend. What’s he doing here? I throw on a raincoat.

  “What the hell, Will? It’s the middle of the night,” I call down.

  “Sorry. I said I had something for you.” He holds up a book, in a Ziploc bag.

  “You drove all the way from Miami, in a storm, to give me a book?”

  “Yeah, you need it for your trip.”

  “Bullshit, Will. The only thing you’re missing is a boom box and a trench coat.” Will’s always been the hopeless romantic waiting patiently for his movie ending. I, on the other hand, know there is no happily ever after. You must find your own happy. Over and over again.

  “What happened to your leg, Marina?” he asks. I look down. The rain washes blood from my knee down my leg. “You’re always bleeding.”

  “Will, you’re the one who said only messages and emails after we broke up.”

  “I know. Just come down, please,” he says. I pitch the rope ladder over the side and climb down. Water drips off the brim of the straw cowboy hat he’s worn for years. The guys on the police force tease him, but Will’s not the sort that cares. He grew up near Ocala, looking after a ranch full of cattle. Now he works as a cop in Key West, looking after an island full of misfits. I try not to notice that his favorite blue shirt is soaked and now plastered to his well-sculpted break-up bod.

  “Will, you can’t stop me. I have a cheap ticket to Europe, an invitation to an exclusive wine release party, a book to research, and a mother who’s driving me crazy. I can’t stay here cleaning fish and making key lime pies for other people who left home to explore new places. I have to get the fuck out of this boat, out of this town, and out of this state.”

  “I know, Marina. You got ants in your pants.” He always said that. I used to say, “And you’re jealous of those ants,” but tonight I do not. “Besides, how can you be a great writer if you never have any worldly experiences?”

  “Exactly,” I say, surprised and disarmed. There’s an awkward moment filled with only the sound of the warm rain around us. I stare at my toes, wiggling them in the mud.

  “Have you read this?” He hands me the book.

  “The Alchemist? No.”

  “Okay, good.”

  “Thanks.” We both stand there, silent again. It’s been months since we broke up. But, then there was that “one last time” on his sailboat during the fireworks on the Fourth of July. Now, as he leans in to hug me goodbye, I smell the sweet, earthy scent of his rain-soaked hair and I flash back to that night.

  The silhouette of his perfectly shaped nose was lit by soft, distant flashes of light as he had leaned in to kiss me. The boat had gently swayed, pressing our bodies together. The cool salt breeze had tickled the glass mermaid wind chime as the stubble of his day-old beard tickled my neck, sending goose bumps racing down my arms and chest. I could feel his heart racing, pounding against my wet T-shirt as I gripped his hair and kissed him hungrily. I could never get enough of those strong, confident kisses. I could kiss this man for hours.

  Our bodies had swayed rhythmically with the boat. It was like we were dancing . . . although, I never dance to slow songs. His hands had cupped my ass, pulling me into him, tighter, closer. As I felt him harden for me, my desperate fingers had tugged at the strings of his board shorts as my forehead pressed against his abs. He’d lifted me easily up onto the cabin bunk and peeled off my wet T-shirt. The fireworks had flashed from afar, illuminating his beautiful face as he’d smiled and untied the string on my bikini. His gentle, strong hands on my breasts, his thumb stroking my nipple—

  “You’re getting all wet,” Will’s voice breaks through my memory. No shit. Here, now, in the dark and the warm rain, I want him so badly, but I simply lean in and kiss his cheek. He hugs me tightly. It feels good, too good, even though rainwater pours off his hat into my hood, and down my back. I peel myself out of his arms. I h
ave to. We want different things.

  “Bye, Cowboy.”

  “Have fun, Mermaid,” he says. “But not too much fun.” I get a glimpse of his one slightly crooked tooth that only shows when he smiles. Will gets into his old Bronco and drives away. Back in my boat, I reopen my new Swiss Army suitcase with the super strong zipper (guaranteed for life) and stuff in the book. Then, to counteract the weight of old relationships with the prospect of new ones, I also cram back in the ridiculously uncomfortable stilettos.

  Chapter 3

  How Not to Fly

  My Boat on Stilts, Harbor House B&B: Thursday, 6:49 a.m.

  “Marina!” My mother’s voice slices into my Ryan Gosling dream like a buzz saw, but it’s actually a relief. Moments ago, I’d been waiting patiently in the extra large, first-class plane bathroom stripped down to my purple La Perla lingerie, waiting for Ryan to induct me into the mile-high club. But then my dream had taken a sharp nose-dive. Ryan bashed the door open from the outside, brandishing a gun and his US Marshalls badge, seizing my oversized bottle of perfume. “It’s over three ounces! Everybody get down!” Screams of horror, as passengers assumed the crash position.

  “Marina! Get up now if you want a ride! I need help with breakfast, and we have to drop some guests at the Hemingway House on the way to the airport shuttle.” A radio squawks by my head. It’s a system we rigged up so Rosalie could communicate with me from the main house at any time. Biggest mistake I ever made. I blink at the clock. Shit.

  Kitchen, Harbor House B&B: Thursday, 7:12 a.m.

  “You’ve already read that crap to me once, Rosalie!” I fry the bacon as she, AGAIN, reads me the State Department’s web page of safety precautions for citizens traveling abroad.

  “They update it daily. You can’t be too careful. Don’t call me that. Know before you go.” She problematically reminds me that I’ve chosen a country with, “gypsies and gigolos everywhere.”

  “Why do you think I picked it?” I reply. I know her real beef with gypsies is that my father insisted on naming their Romanian Gypsy friend my official godfather instead of her brother. Rosalie never quite understood dad’s fascination with this resourceful, nomadic culture. I, on the other hand, loved visiting their cigar-scented home, with sparkling crystal chandeliers, plastic-covered furniture, and neon palm reader signs blinking proudly. As I said before, Rosalie isn’t the wandering type. The fact that she’s never been out of the country doesn’t seem to bother her at all. I flip the bacon. “Stop worrying. We’ll video chat weekly, if you can remember how to use the app I downloaded onto your not-so-smart phone.” She reaches over me to get her coffee and her arm grazes the sizzling frying pan.

  “Oh!” She winces, drawing back quickly. I immediately examine it and, yanking a bag of frozen peas out of the freezer, sit her down with her mug of coffee. Rosalie is prone to accidents causing herself bodily injury. (Okay, we have two things in common.)

  “Relax. I’m the one that’s leaving the country, Rosalie.”

  “I said don’t call me that.” She hates this, which is why I do it. “How long will you be gone?” she asks, her voice pained, but it’s not her arm that’s bothering her.

  “Until my money runs out or I get arrested, whichever comes first,” I joke. She doesn’t smile. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got Dad’s survivalist instincts.” At the mention of my father, she bristles.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.” She looks away, annoyed and trying not to let me see her nervous tears welling up. I know what’s worrying her most. I hug her with my spatula in hand. “I’m coming back. I promise.”

  “You’re dripping bacon juice on my blouse.”

  “It smells better than your perfume.”

  Miami International Airport, Florida: Thursday, 1:07 p.m.

  I’m late to the airport, but apparently when you’re traveling on a buddy pass, they don’t care if you show up at all. Buddy passes are inexpensive standby tickets from friends who work for the airline. You’re a seat-filler. If you’re lucky, you’ll get out on the first flight. Extremely lucky, you’ll be put in first class. I am neither.

  Gate 24A, MIA: Thursday, 1:48 p.m.

  The jetway door is closed. Only one standby passenger got a seat. The rest of us are “rolled over” to the next flight, leaving in two hours from gate 56B. I kill time in the bookstore looking at magazines I won’t buy. Cate Blanchett is playing mother, daughter, and grandmother in the same film? She is so talented.

  Gate 32A, MIA: Thursday, 5:36 p.m.

  The next flight also left without me. I’m starting to get nervous that I won’t make it in time for Nadya’s exclusive wine party. But there are three more flights to Rome tonight. I start to make friends with the other “leftovers.” It feels like the rapture, watching others get whisked away to paradise. There is a list on a screen. Your name moves up or down, depending on who shows up that outranks you. Currently, Ruby Johnson is directly ahead of me on the list. She is over eighty, uses a wheeled, floral backpack for a carry on, and is on her way to see her new great-grandchild in Rome.

  “I do yoga every day at sunrise for an hour and eat a vegan diet,” she informs me proudly. Halfway through the blanket she’s knitting, Ruby has been here since 5:00 a.m. “This will be my fourth trip to Rome. My granddaughter served in the Peace Corps and is now the assistant to the US Ambassador of Italy. What do you do?”

  “I’m a writer. I’m going to Italy to research a book.”

  “Wonderful! Like Eat Pray Love? Or Under the Tuscan Sun?”

  “No. It’s not about middle-aged women eating gelato and falling in love while growing basil gardens. It’s about Italian women of influence.”

  “Sounds more like a college term paper.”

  “It’s the first in a series I’m going to write. All over the world,” I retort.

  “Oh, your first book. I see,” says Ruby. She does? What does she see? “Well, I’m only twenty-four.”

  “My granddaughter is twenty-four,” she says smugly. “Speaking of basil, my uncle once had a dog called Basil, he was British you see, and that dog, he was a border collie. They’re very smart you know. He used to pull his own sled up a hill, the dog, not my uncle . . .” After an hour of stories, sage advice, and vegan farts worse than a goat’s, I excuse myself to get a coffee. Note to self: never let my mom go vegan.

  Here I should explain an unpopular opinion. I’m not a fan of old people. I grew up surrounded by retirees who have a sense of entitlement. My ex-best friend Laurel used to say, “Their give-a-shitter’s broken.” Oldies write checks and use coupons on their more than fifteen items in the express grocery line. They drive ten miles below the speed limit in the fast lane. Old men get away with sexist or racist comments because you can’t scold a senior.

  When I return to the gate, I choose a seat next to a man wearing a rumpled sports jacket. This is Helpful Jack. He’s actually trying to get to Paris, but those flights are even more crowded and he’s been here for thirty-six hours. He tells me the carpeted alcove next to the Cinnabon is a good place to sleep—they don’t vacuum there at night. Another man, Nervous Neil, smells homeless and his eyes never focus in one place. Nobody knows how long he’s been here. I think I’ve seen him on an episode of that forensic murder show my mother likes. As the next flight begins to board, I start to wonder if waking up with a petrified raisin stuck to the side of my face is worse than the scream of an industrial-sized vacuum cleaner for six hours.

  Halfway through the boarding process, two women stroll up, with large diamonds, lots of makeup, and inflatable neck pillows. They check in at the gate and suddenly everyone on the standby screen bumps down two spots. Fuck! Pilots’ wives? I don’t care if they’re astronauts’ wives! They should be home drinking Chardonnay in their hot tubs. Nobody wants them here. Not me, not Ruby of the Vegan Goat Farts, and certainly not their husbands’ Italian mistresses! I’m coming unhinged. I’m reminded of the movie Terminal where Tom Hanks plays a refugee trapped inside the airport for weeks
watching everyone come and go from exotic places. A shudder of horror runs down my spine. I’d rather be stuck on an island talking to a volleyball. At least I’d get a tan.

  Chapter 4

  How Not to Get Arrested at the Airport

  HELPFUL HINTS FOR BUDDY PASS RIDERS:

  1. When your mother tries to pack you a sandwich, take it.

  2. Make friends with your fellow leftovers, but don’t get too close.

  3. Don’t stand on the chairs to reach the volume switch of the television—even if you’re afraid you may snap and start hurling luggage if you listen to the same Fox News story for the thirtieth time.

  4. Don’t ask the man in the massage stand if they have “free samples.”

  5. Offering the octogenarian (Ruby) ahead of you on the list a bottle of water every half hour, hoping she’ll be in the bathroom when they call her name, is wrong. Right?

  Gate 51C, MIA: Thursday, 10:23 p.m.

  The next flight has now left without me. But Helpful Jack won the lottery. There were cheers, tears, and applause among the leftovers, hands slapping five as he ran for the jetway like it was a closing time portal. Ruby and I are next on the list. There is one last flight. If I don’t make this one, I’ll have to try again tomorrow, and I’ll miss Nadya’s party. This cannot happen. I can’t miss out on meeting the rich, handsome, recently divorced Italian underwear model I’ve already decided will most certainly be seated next to me at the event. I move closer to the counter and casually mention to the agent with the hair beehive like a Hindu temple that my sister works for UNICEF.